


every breath we drew was hallelujah

by jupiterss



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Fallen Angels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 17:42:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13664037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jupiterss/pseuds/jupiterss
Summary: richie and bev are fallen angels and life is hard idk





	every breath we drew was hallelujah

It’s not exactly a rare occurrence, her climbing up the fire escape and into his apartment through the window at three am, dark, tired eyes and cigarette smoke still lingering on her breath. She comes without warning, seemingly without reason, too.

He never minds. He’s always awake.

They talk, sometimes, if they feel there’s something to say. It’s hardly a conversation, they don’t respond to each other as much as they just fill the gaps between words with more words, asking questions that they both know all too well don’t have answers.

 

_I miss my wings._

_Do you remember how it felt to hold the world in your hands?_

 

_I can still feel them, sometimes._

 

_It feels farther away each day._

 

_How long can we survive like this?_

 

_I don’t know._

 

They cling to each other in a twin-sized bed with messy blue sheets and it’s not enough to keep out the cold, but they barely feel it anyway. They don’t sleep – they never do – but they lie there in silence, no space left between them, feeling each other’s chests rise and fall and they dig their fingertips in harder than they should and they don’t know why, but maybe it’s because they’re scared they’ll float away into nothingness if they don’t hold on tight enough.

They act as each other’s anchors. It’s a good arrangement, they think.

 

The sun always rises, even though some nights it feels like it never will, and as golden strings filter in through cracked blinds, they break apart as easily as they fell together. No parting words, usually, but maybe a sad smile or an acknowledging nod. It’s not much, but it says everything it needs to.

 

_Thank you for your time._

 

She leaves through the window, the same way she came in. He has told her plenty of times she can use the door, she knows where the spare key is hidden (in the gap between the bricks, left of the door in the stairwell), but she refuses. He doesn’t know why. He guesses she doesn’t either, really.

Maybe it feels too much like commitment.

Maybe she can’t call this place a home just yet.

Maybe –.

 

He lies in bed for an hour or two more, staring at a water-stained ceiling with a shitty light fixture that flickers too much to be useful. His chest aches, usually, filled with an awful longing for something _more_ , something that he once had but that’s now gone, something that he feels slipping away between his fingers and between his teeth more and more every day. He ignores it, usually, until he can’t.

 

He gets up.

 

He fills his day with tasks and errands, in a mostly futile attempt to distract himself from thinking too much, from missing too much. He’ll go to the grocery store for a few hours, aimlessly wandering through aisles of colourful packaging and calories he doesn’t need with the plastic handles of a basket digging into the crook of his elbow, and it’ll be full by the time he leaves, though he rarely pays much attention as to what’s in it.

 

There’s always chicken soup in a can and peanut MnMs, he realises. Because old habits and whatnot.

 

People tend to stare, and he’s used to it. There must be something there, he guesses, some sort of residual power that still shines through, even now. It’ll fade, he tells himself, it’ll fade away and then he’ll be just like them, and anything left of his former self will be gone forever. It’s terrifying and comforting and gut-wrenchingly saddening all at the same time. He swallows the lump in his throat and pushes the thought away. No good comes from crying in public.

 

People tend to stare, but they usually pretend they haven’t been. He catches glances every now and then, he’ll see someone looking with a estranged expression out of the corner of his eye, but if he turns his head they’ll shift their gaze, act like they were looking at something just next to him. He’s started to wear brighter colours, obnoxiously patterned over-shirts that he finds in op-shops, and it makes him feel a little better. At least he can pretend they’re staring because of his dress sense.

 

He catches the bus, because it’s cheaper than a taxi and less crowded than the subway. A woman in her late forties sits next to him and shivers, and tugs her coat around herself more.

 

_A bit chilly, isn’t it?_

 

He flashes her a half smile and hums something that sounds like agreement.

He doesn’t feel the cold much.

 

He goes to a particular cafe every few days, because the chairs are comfortable and there’s one barista who has a nice smile and they don’t skimp out on the caramel when he asks for extra. He pulls a cardboard sleeve onto the cup he gets handed and thanks _Ben,_ as his name tag reads, then walks across the room to the far wall with some abstract yellow and blue mural painted on it, and it’s slightly jarring and quite ugly but the chairs face away from it anyway. He sits by himself in the corner of the cafe, and people stare and pretend they’re not, and he sips his overly sweet, overly caffeinated drink and enjoys the mundane serenity that can only be found in small coffee shops like this.

 

One boy stares, and doesn’t look away.

 

It catches his attention, of course, the way the boy’s eyes don’t flick away when he meets them, the way he furrows his brow and tilts his head. He feels caught off guard, enormously so. He hasn’t held eye contact with someone for so long. It feels foreign. It feels intimate.

 

It feels human, he thinks. Though he doesn’t quite know what that feels like.

  
There’s something angelic about him, the stranger, with the halo of blonde curls surrounding his face, the pristinely crisp fold in his collar, the perfectly kept fingernails on hands wrapped around a travel mug, the greenish flecks in his greyish eyes that continue to lay on his from across the room, not with malice or hatred, but with curiosity. They ask a question. He doesn’t know what it is, but maybe he does.

 

He reminds him, for a moment, of home.

 

He makes a bold move and stands, straightening out his shirt as he does, forgetting whatever remained of his coffee on the small table. He crosses the room, though each step is filled with hesitance. The stranger nods, so slight it’s almost invisible. He takes it as an invitation. Their eyes never leave each other.

 

_Hi_

 

he says, standing in front of the boy now, one hand shoves into the front pocket of his threadbare jeans and the other grasping the hem of his blaringly orange unbuttoned button-up.

 

_Hi_

 

the stranger returns, and suddenly he shivers, and a minute surge of electricity runs up his spine. For a moment, he thinks the stranger feels it too.

 

_Richie_

 

he offers, stretching his un-pocketed hand outwards, and the other glances at it briefly before shaking it.

 

_Stan_

 

he replies, and makes a gesture that Richie takes as

 

_please, sit down_

 

 _s_ o he does.

 

_Are you-?_

 

Stan starts, breaking a silence that he didn’t realise had built for a minute or so, and it seems the rest of the sentence catches in his throat. But Richie’s sure he knows well enough. He nods his head, slowly, and repeats the question.

 

_Okay._

 

And that seems to be enough words, for now at least.

 

They both smile, content replacing tension in the air.

 

And it’s not heaven, and he knows it never will be. But, for the first time since he fell, he thinks it might be close enough.

**Author's Note:**

> my tunglr.com is kinghanscom pls validate me


End file.
